Firebirds and Icewires
by Lilentorio
Summary: Sorrel, a victor from District 6, is barely surviving in the Capitol. But things will only get worse as the 74th Annual Hunger Games begin. Mentoring her tribute, juggling Capitol brutality and her own demons, avoiding falling for...anything. May the odds be ever in your favor.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:**

**Hello :D**

**This story used to be on another account, but that was confusing and terrible so I gave up. I tried it on another because I didn't think this story would fit with the rest. Oh well.**

**This story occurs at the same time as the 74th Hunger Games, the first which Katniss and Peeta are in. This story will hopefully have pretty regular updates. Cheers, please review- I want to hear what you like, or don't like, or think I should focus more on... I'm open to constructive criticism. :) The story is told from Sorrel's point of view.**

**Blurb: Sorrel, a recent winner from District 6, is barely surviving in the Capitol. But things will only get worse as the 74th Annual Hunger Games begin. Mentoring her tribute, juggling Capitol ruthlessness and her own demons, avoiding falling for...anything. May the odds be ever in your favor.**

**Disclaimer for this entire story: The Hunger Games and all recognisable characters belong to Suzanne Collins. I'm just Fanficin'.**

* * *

My hidden wardrobe... No one knows about it. I think. I built it myself. I grew up learning minor construction, how to make certain things for the transport systems.

I get down onto my knees in front of the wardrobe and push at what appears to be the back. It slides away, revealing a hidden cavity. I pull out a pair of stockings, and bend my thigh, sliding the silk up until it is fully undone over my skin. Black silk. No garter, never— I'm not some Capitolite idiot that drapes herself in useless, repugnant finery. This is...art. The same reason I do not wear red unless it's requested. No colour, no distractions except for _me_. I hate the excess of the Capitol, even if I am now a part of it.

My fingers find clean underwear, and I slip them up over my hips. I run my fingers over the skin there, which should be scarred and burnt beyond repair. Instead there is only clear, unscarred skin.

My hands shake and I run them through my hair quickly, breathing deep to control my heart. I wonder how it will be this year. There is a thirst for blood in the air that grows daily, almost every hour, until you can taste it in their eyes. The people want blood. District blood. It's around this time my nightmares are worst. When I have to take morphling drugs to sleep. The drug is addictive, but I have the control to reign in the desire for it. Mostly because it is provided by the Capitol. They wish to keep me sedate. It sickens me. But it is a...trademark of my district. The last District Six winner of the annual Hunger Games became addicted. My mentor. He never had any scars, either.

It makes you hate your own skin.

I need to come to my senses. My hand goes to lie slack by my sides. I look down at myself, breathing already irregular. Think. I continue to get dressed. I spray jasmine perfume on my throat, wrists, and the backs of my knees.

Digging into the back I withdraw a pair of heels. Tall, black, sleek. I slide them onto my feet. Now the tedious task of extra clothing. It's not as if I'll be wearing it for long- Forget it. I pull a dark grey trench coat over my shoulder, doing up the zip in the centre and then fastening the attached belt. The bottom of the coat brushes a few inches under where my stockings begin, which seems perfectly acceptable. In the bathroom, I run a brush through my hair and tie it into a knot at the back of my head with the aid of a ribbon. I've never met a man who didn't like pulling my hair free. It's an alien excitement to me. I push a stray strand of hair behind my ear, and appraise myself in the mirror. I put on a little make-up earlier, but I put a little mascara and eyeliner in the trench's pocket in case.

The mirror reflects back an image of myself I never thought I would see. The fabric is expensive, the clothes themselves well-cut and tailor made, but not anything extraordinary to look at. My skin looks soft and dirt-free, my cheeks aren't hollow anymore. None of the poverty of a district and none of the extravagance of the Capitol.

I look so clean and neat.

I look like I come from nowhere.

* * *

All I know about Cinna is that he's a new designer. As such, he's been given District 12 to design for, like all newcomers are. I don't like being sent to make a Capitolite feel welcome, but I like it even less that he isn't even one that will attempt to help my District's tributes.

Though I suppose there is no real way to be a tribute and ever win. If you lose, you're being killed, if you _win_, you're a puppet for President Snow. He didn't want me to be a victor. District 6 is so embarrassing when we win. My Victory Tour was a carefully controlled mess of me breaking down in front of crowds, unable to speak, and learning how to censor everything I did so that the Capitol wouldn't hurt my family-

Cinna's apartment is in a block of flats that are shaped like a rainbow. A steel and glass one, with a gentle river of misty water flowing from the underside of the arch, through which beams of light are being projected through. This makes real rainbows, as the light hits the fragmented water, turning the whole building into a display. In the exact middle is an elevator shaft that divides the water flow, refracting the light back and intensifying the false rainbows.

It's beautiful. Of course it is. How could the designers for the _Hunger Games_ live in anywhere but a piece of art?

I step towards the base of the elevator shaft. It's made of mirrored glass- I can't see inside. My heart skips a beat when a scanner suddenly brushes over my face, my knuckles gripping the edge of my coat in an effort to keep still. An electronic voice emanates from within the elevator. "_Confirmed_." A woman's voice, soft and sensual. The doors of the elevator open and I step inside. Inside, it is very dark and very warm. all the day's humidity and heavy heat seems to have found this space and decided to nestle in it. I'm not claustrophobic, but it still makes my skin crawl. When the doors open to let me out I breath out a sigh of relief.

In front of me, a door with a large, cast-iron 6 and the name _Pette Darius_ carved into the handle. Of course. I'm in the middle of the rainbow. My District is right in front of me. Not my District. I can feel color draining from my face.

Cinna is District 12. I turn right and occasionally glance at doors, tracking which number I am on. The corridor is silent. I know nothing of a designer's schedule, but it seems to include a lot of quiet- all I can hear is my own breathing. Even my footsteps are erased by the soft, plush rug that carpets the hall.

10

11

_12_. I stop and knock on the door three times.

It opens, revealing a man with-

"Who are you?" I ask.

He must be tribute from an older Games. He looks nothing like someone from the Capitol- no alterations to his body; that I can see, at least. No strange skin or tinted hair. No piercings. All that would make him different from a person from the districts is the touch of gold eyeliner around his eyes. It reminds me of the bare touched of make up on my own face. His clothes are plain and black, neat, fitting but far from ostentatious and certainly showing no particular wealth or class. I'm sure if I were more familiar with brands and fabrics I would be able to tell something more about him, but at the moment I am so utterly confused as to why on earth a fellow tribute has broken in to Cinna's apartment. Whether or not I should be getting ready to fight.

"Who are you?" his smile curves his mouth up, turning his face gentle. His voice has a slight Capitol lilt to it. What...? I take a step back. He tilts his head slightly. "My name is Cinna."

I laugh. It sounds wrong. "Stop. I'm not joking- if someone else discovers you're here..."

His brow furrows. "I'm afraid you must have me confused with someone else. I'm the designer for District 12- hence my being in this room. Perhaps you've gotten lost?"

I suddenly feel naked, wishing I had trousers, a shirt, something under the long coat.

"I'm sorry. You surprised me." He isn't at all what I was expecting. I've met a few newcomers over the years and they're always desperate to impress, showing off, arrogant. He's watching me with gentle puzzlement that feels like it's breaking me in half. "My name is Sorrel," I say, extending a hand, and watch as his own face begins to mirror what I feel.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Mild swearing! And dark themes o.o

* * *

Cinna shakes my hand and steps aside. When I brush past him he says nothing, does nothing, and that is somehow more polite than anything else.

His apartment is slightly more of a familiar sight than he is. The room is elegant, done in all grey and silver, with a dark wooden floor and windows on the far side which stretch up from floor to ceiling, reflecting light like the sweat on a worker's back.

"Can I take your coat?" he asks, shutting the door behind him with a soft _click_. His footsteps are soft but at least I can hear them on this surface, behind me. My fingers hesitate at the zip of my coat. But then I undo it, quickly, fingers fumbling with the stone in my stomach. I pull it off and turn to him, holding it out.

"Thank you." I can't help my rigid tone.

He ignores the coat, staring at me, running his eyes down and back up at snail's pace. I notie his eyes are an odd mix of green and brown. I feel like I should hate this look, but I'm glued to the spot. After a few moments he coughs, rubs his throat, reaching out to take the trench from my hand. For a moment we're both tugging it until I realise that I need to let it go.

"I know tradition demands that a newcomer be made...feel...welcome," he begins, and I hate him for it. It's not tradition. I am not a service and he is just the same as all the rest, even if he isn't self-mutilated, he is still...entitled. I don't want pretty words because this is not pretty. It's not okay. I come to my senses, remember why I'm here, and I feel _disgusting_.

-and I shouldn't. This is fine. It's my life and that's- that is perfect. I'm thinking like I did before. Such frivolity...

...would have gotten me killed in the Arena.

This is not the Arena.

_It all is_.

Breathe.

At any rate, I am wasting my time doing nothing while he waits for me to explain why I've turned to stone. My coat is neatly over the back of the couch.

I step closer, gauging his reaction, and raise my hands. I trace the line of his jaw with my fingertips.

He has a strong jaw.

"Your hands are shaking." He shakes his head, catching hold of my wrists. He keeps his eyes carefully on my face. "Sorrel, I'm not that man. I mean, I don't..."

"Do you have a girl?" I admire his ability to look at me because I can't look at him anymore.

"No." His fingers loosen and I pull my hands free.

And then it's his hand in my hair, tilting my head to look at him.

"Do you have anyone?" he asks, eyes darker, like he knows that it wouldn't matter either way. So I tilt my head further in a no and his hand drops to his side. "Can't imagine why."

"I'm not sure that it's any of your business."

His eyes spark, charming face dry with humor. "I'd say finding a reason not to humiliate you is entirely my business. Tonight."

The stone in my stomach shifts. "What do you want me to do?" I ask.

"How long do you usually stay for?" he moves away, stepping behind me. "Arms back." The order is swift, but suddenly sweeter than any love song. I feel a smile creeping on to my face as he slides my coat on over my shoulders.

Warmth butterflies up in my stomach. "Um. It...depends on the man."

"Well, I have good stamina so I suppose you'll stay for a while." I catch a hint of a smirk on his face as I turn around, but it disappears before I can be sure. "I'm sure we'll find some way to keep busy."

"Card games?"

He gives me a funny look. "Those haven't been used anywhere near here for a very long time. I think I'd rather get to know the woman grooming my district's competitors."

_My district_.

He pauses, seeing my face. "Have I said something wrong?"

I sit down on the couch, doing up the trench coat, heart still beating as if it could burst. "Of course not. Thank you...for asking."

He sits opposite me on a chair that looks like it's made of one solid strand of silver, twisted in the shape of a chair. "Sorrel. Which Games were you in?"

I draw myself back. "What kind of question is that?"

"It's a curious question from a young fool. Indulge me." He treads a line between manners and control, deft.

"I just don't see how it's relevant," I mutter.

"Well, we may as well know the basics about eachother." He smiles, so charming and easy.

I rub my face and lean back in the sofa. "The 71st Hunger Games, District 6, Sorrel Mire, fifteen years old."

Cinna pauses, searching his memory, and then sighs. "So you're the one who was paired with Titus the cannibal. He was your fellow tribute from Six, wasn't he? I'm sure it was that year..."

Titus.

Anontius Drav was my last client; some rich bored politician getting back at his wife. He spent a lot of time talking about Titus, tracing patterns down my spine and lecturing me about the tactical advantage of eating your victims. Titus and I travelled the Arena much better than most. The ice didn't come as a surprise to us like it did the rest. My district runs across the most northern edges of Panem. Anontius told me how as I made a protective igloo under a thicket, Titus was out, screaming into the wind while he had his first taste of human. And second, third...

God, I didn't know. I didn't know he would _break_.

I should have killed him straight off. I should have gone after him at the Cornucopia, when he thought I'd run away.

He knew I'd run.

"Yes. You're right." I say.

I ran away and he ate people.

_Titus_.

Cinna ducks his head. "And three years later, you're entertaining."

"I'm waiting."

"For?"

"The Hunger Games season." I look at him. I have to, I make myself look at him. "It isn't three years ago. It's now. Every year there is a new pair of tributes and I watch them go."

_Every year I am cast aside once the celebrations are over and the men who were enthusiastic to sponsor my candidates for slaughter all become even more enthusiastic about pulling me under sheets like dogs. Every year I watch the Reaping because if my brother is chosen I think I would rather die than watch him have to live- this- live-_

"You make it sound like a holiday camp," Cinna says softly. He leans away, expression troubled. "Sorrel, why not just...you look tired."

He's probably trying to politely hint at me to do something or other. I smile. "You look human." He does. It's a strange enough look on a stylist.

His eyes flicker suddenly, and he leans in. "I need almost constant practise at my art, with the event being so close at hand."

I raise an eyebrow. "You're feeling...pressured by that?"

"On the contrary. I like a challenge." He stands up, holding a hand out. "I just don't like sitting still..." He brings his eyes back to mine. "Since cards are out of the question, would you mind if I took your measurements?"


	3. Chapter 3

**Warning: There is serious talk about drug abuse in this chapter. Nothing too explicit, but I still think it warrants a heads-up.**

**Reviews are ever welcome- I'm aware this chapter is a bit different in style, so feedback on the change / what you think in general of this story is greatly appreciated**

**;)**

**Enjoy.**

* * *

I step back into my apartment in the morning. An Avox presses the button to my floor inside the elevator, and I look at the back of her head, the cropped black hair. She stays very still, and I almost think she's a statue until she moves to one side as the elevator doors slide open, gesturing slightly to the door with a gloved hand.

In the corridor, a little woman with magenta candyfloss hair stands, wringing her hands. Her lips are large, overwhelming her face, a constant pout. I feel like hitting her and then remember its probably not the best idea. Her name is Pette Darius; the official stylist for District 6.

"Sorrel! You'll never-"

"They Reaping is tomorrow. I know." My head pounds.

She nods, reaching up and drawing a pen out of the depths of her hair. "I was wondering if you'd help me begin designing as we watch." She grinned, those lips like fat elastic bands being stretched. "Creative Girl's night in? I already have some thoughts!"

I remember to breathe. Her eyes are friendly, genuine. I can't say no and my stomach churns as I say yes. "That sounds good," I smile at her. "It's nice to start the season with friends. We can have it here?"

She grins, and the smile pauses for a moment. "What about...you know...Garrett?" Her fingers twitch, as if she expects him to leap into her arms as she says his name.

I don't know how to answer her. Garrett's pale eyes drift through my mind. We met on the train to the Capitol. He was my mentor. Forty years old, he tipped my chin up and told me I was pretty in such a savage way that I almost thought about scarring myself so he'd never look like that again. His was an morphling-addled mind, the way one second he'd be carefully teaching me about the Cornucopia, and after an injection would lie in the middle of a carriage, content, relaxed, milky eyes deadened. Other times he'd shake and shiver and curse against the wall, tears trying to break free from his fists.

This isn't uncommon in Six. But I couldn't walk, and I was scared I'd die or be injured even further from his panic attacks. The train compartment wasn't huge. If he turned, like a snake, I'd be trapped.

I remember praying he'd be clean enough to give me a shot at living. The evenings were worst; a nurse would take me from my chair and deposit me onto my bed, and I would see him walk past the open doorway as I was lowered. As if I was a corpse being laid to rest. As if he was already mourning.

He knew I was fifteen, and damaged below the waist, and had been injured in a factory accident at nine. He knew I was thinking I stood no chance. How hard can it be to kill someone bound to a wheelchair? Against a Career...

One night, after the nurse had left me be, he woke me up, turning the light on and barking at me to sit up straight and listen. He sat on the edge of the bed, and there was something in his eyes; like fervour but quieter. High. He told me I shouldn't worry about my legs, but how quickly I could adapt to having them back once the Capitol fixed them. There was no fun in watching a helpless girl die, he pointed out- the doctors would fix me to appease the ideals of the audience, to make me seem like their miracle girl.

And I was. I ran away from the Cornucopia, his words throbbing in my head, remembering to just bolt because I wasn't quite adapted enough to duck and dodge and rely on my trembling thighs and calves just yet. I managed to grab a plastic sack, loosely packed with a small jar of honey, thermal socks (I was so relieved to see those) and a green-glass poisoned dart.

When I watched the filming of it, I am barely there- a flash of hair, pale faced and so delighted to see the familiar sight of snow that I smiled. That smile marked me out, from the beginning. It's amazing what a carefully placed second can do, with the right editing. Maybe the cripple girl had something up her sleeve!

When I won, Garrett didn't look at me. I didn't look at him. We smiled past each other in front of the camera, and then sat three feet apart, watching the annual Hunger Games film. My journey looked inspiring. From disabled, tragic factory child, making small parts for trains, to a triumphant goddess of bloodied snow. We both sat rigidly, watching, and he was being calm, so calm. I felt like snow inside; loose and cold and numbing. After it was over, and he bent for a 'farewell hug' for the cameras, and pressed a vial into my pocket.

I didn't take it for weeks. Morphling is easy to spot, once you know what is looks like- pearly blue, quite clear. The colour of veins seen through skin, at the wrist, but prettier. The little glass container stayed in my pocket until I heard about the Victory Tour. Remembering it was mandatory. The sudden heavy hell that had been drifting through my head turned real, and my nightmares became panic attacks in broad daylight. I didn't want anyone to see me like that. I wanted them to feed into their delusion that with my legs, I was unstoppable. Beautiful and strong and a brilliant light of success. I didn't want to be weak anymore. The Games had left me reeling and the lack of control I had over my dreams, my reactions and reflexes scared me.

So I took it before going onstage at District 1. The feel of it made me go numb again inside, and I could congratulate my fellow tributes on their bravery. Feeling like a cheat. But a reasonably controlled one, a sedate one.

It was gone when we reached District 2, and I would wake up in cold sweats, shivering so hard I could barely stand up, as the morphling adjusted to my body and began to change it.

By District 3 I was screaming for the sweet oblivion it had brought. I didn't blame Garrett; I blamed my own District, the Capitol, anything faceless. I hated it. This had been given to me as a child in huge quantities to numb the pain of losing use of my legs. And now the drug remembered me.

"Garrett likes to be alone for the viewing," I say.

Pette's face falls. She wants to think of our group, of all the Six stylists and make up artists and mentors and tributes and all the rest, as one big happy family. A team. "Well," she says. "He's not a girl, anyway. We're more than enough fun together!"

I wonder what they'll look like this year.


	4. Chapter 4

Story so far: Sorrel, our heroine, has had a strange encounter with Cinna, and at home has met up with Pette Darius the District Six designer in order to watch the Reaping.

Warning: Swearing!

* * *

My flat is up to standard, I think. The Avox in the hallway gives me a startled look when I pull her int my apartment, but knows better than to resist. I rub my forehead, surveying around.

"Anything out of place?" I keep my tone cool, and once again I am struck by the expressive eyes of someone who can't speak. Hers are rather...unstriking, but the way her expression shifts with them is like magic.

Black magic. She carefully makes adjustments to the framed pictures on the walls, straightens things which I hadn't noticed were tilted. When she is finished, she tucks her mousey hair behind her ears once more and stands in a corner, her hands in front of her, back straight. Her eyes glance at me, but that's where I draw the line. I shake my head. I don't care if I'm a little skewed. I pull my dress hem straight, anyway, pressure building in the air. The Avox girl does a quick, practised curtsey. She closes the door behind her as she leaves.

Pette will expect food.

I take some platters out of the cupboards, opening a compartment in the wall. Loading the plates, I bring them one by one to the low table in front of the sofa. My arms strain, trying to get my muscles to work while my veins push the morphling into my fingertips.

The hem of my dress pulls up, and I look down, realising I do want to look perfect. I'm meant to be happy today. I am happy. It's the Reaping. My tributes will be chosen.

I sit on the sofa and put my hands over my face. No. No stopping. This is so exciting, isn't it? This is so much fun! This is so much fun!

I flinch when I realise I'm biting marks into my palm.

The bathroom mirror tells me I'm a lot less made up than I thought I was. I run a brush through my hair, then braid is carefully around my head. I inspect my dress. Plain, but well cut and down to my knees. There's a certain security in that.

There's a knock on the door.

My reflection swims for a moment, and then I clap my hands, turning the bathroom light off, and move to open the door.

Pette's face darkens slightly at my state of dress. She has a thick, velvety green dress that swirls about her legs, a corset with streaming teal bird feathers. Her shoulders are protected from the weather by a shawl that keeps changing colours, like a river of oil. Her face is something she might think as spectacular. Her eyes twice as large as usual -my stomach churns- her lips done in a myriad of shifting colours. Her signature for the Hunger Games, that ever-changing thread of colour.

In contrast, I feel like a little girl. Simple black dress, braided hair, black shoes.

"You're as casual as ever," Pette laughs, patting my hand as she sweeps in. My heart stutters uneasily. I hear a squeal as she sees the food. "Oh, darling! Truffled mice? You spoil me."

My chest deflates with relief. I turn and lean against the door, shutting it. I cross my arms, grin.

"I know you like them."

Pette laughs as she sits down, and I notice that she has a large, flat-ish suitcase with her. No doubt full of drawings, pencils, anything for inspiration.

I glance at the clock. "You're just in time...ready to begin?" My grin widens. "I can't wait to see them."

"I just hope they're better than Leah. Remember, that awful girl last year? What a disaster."

Leah killed herself. She was lifted into the Arena, and stepped off her pod before the countdown had been completed.

She fucking _knew_.

"...and Caspær wine? Quick, Sorrel! The Reaping will begin in a minute."

Leah had these really light eyes, like algae at the top of a still pond. I don't have to turn the TV on. It comes to life by itself, the mandatory viewing beginning like it always does, with a little introduction from Caesar Flickerman. His colour this year is turquoise, and it brings out the quickness of his eyes. I sit next to Pette as she noisily takes out an electronic pad to sketch on. My legs cross.

I lean over, take a piece of paper from Pette and nod when she offers a graphite pencil.

_District 1- Glimmer, Marvel. : definite Career. G more of a threat. Standard._

_District 2- Clove, Cato : watch out. Murder eyes. Cat = volunteer. Clove = arrogant._

_District 3- Venn, Jinit : Cornbread._

_District 4- Delilah, Liam : Cornbread._

_District 5- Jan, Killian : Jan looks clever / foxfaced._

_District 6- Hinne Taura, Aron Damhundt : _

I try not to look at them too long, but I can't take notes about them the same way as the rest. I don't look at the screen too much. It reminds me of standing in the courtyard. I can see my brother when I glance up. They give him a shout-out, say some nonsense about being sorry he can't follow in my footsteps, and he just smiles. A close-up of his face, and my knuckles go white. He's doing that strained grin, but his eyes go through the camera, looking at me, the closest contact we have had since I was called to the Capitol. He needs a haircut. His curly-wurly hair hides his forehead, my little brother. This is his last year. I won't see him at the Reaping ever again. Pette peers over at me.

"Cornbread?" she asks.

"Hm?"

"You wrote it next to District three and four...?"

"Cornucopia bread. Bloodbath bread. Cornbread," I mutter.

District 7 flashes before my eyes, and I realise I haven't written anything down for them. Dammit.

_District 7- _,_?_

My brother's name is Gareth. He looks so much older now. I hope his birthday presents arrived.

_District 8- Dilara, Fenrir : Cornbread. _

_District 9- Cornbread, Cornbread : Cornbread._

_District 10- ", " : "_

_District 11- Rue, Thresh : Little girl, again. Huge boy = threat._

I rub my face. Rue stands on the stage, smiling sweetly. She looks so delicate, waif like, dwarfed by Thresh. I hope she dies early on. Something clean. Not like a toy. If they kill her like a toy... Every little thing builds up, I don't want to break. I have tributes to focus on.

I put a heart shape next to Rue's name. That's the way she'll get support, the only way. If people take a liking to her.

Pette signs fondly. "Isn't she adorable? That girl! Oh, I'd love to make a little dress...something to bring out that beautiful neck...Hm..." she trails off.

I grit my teeth. "Shut up."

"What?"

"Nothing." I look at her and smile. "Want another truffle?"

District 12. The last one. This has been playing for more than two hours, hopping from District to District.

Their Escort, Effie Trinket, looks like candyfloss squared.

"Primrose Everdeen!"

My chest heaves. It's another twelve year old, being ferried on stage. No. Not two. The morphling is fading, my eyes sting, I blink hard and note down her name.

She's blonde, so opposite in looks to Rue. But they're the same.

"No."

"Sorrel?"

"Are you happy? She's the same age as Rue. Someone for you to dress up."

I can't believe I'm praying. There just can't be two. It's etched in my head, running in circles, the certainty that even the Capitol can't let two little girls get murdered at once. It can't. An iron fist enters down my throat, lumping it, and my nails burn my fists.

I can't do anything. My breath is short. Primrose trembles in front of the camera and something inside me snaps. _They'd eat her alive._

The camera suddenly zooms in on a girl, who's trying to get through the Peacekeepers. Her arms reach between them, her dark hair braided. She screams out, and my heart thunders.

"I VOLUNTEER!" She barely sounds human. Pure determination, desperation gritting her eyes.

Wair, what did she say?

Pette gasps beside me.

The girl sags. She lifts her head. "I volunteer as tribute."

She'd taken up on stage, her skinny wrists dangling fists. Effie asks her name.

"Katniss Everdeen."

I tip my head towards the paper.

_District 12- KATNISS : volunteer._

Pette looks shocked when I stand up. "Sorrel?"

"I'm just going to get a drink," I say over my shoulder.

In the kitchen, I rest my forehead against the counter. I don't know whether to laugh or cry. Rue is still going to die. Primrose is going to live. Katniss Everdeen. I thank her silently, and I don't know what for. What an impossible... Everyone is going to remember her for volunteering. ...Can I even feel happy for her sister? An Everdeen is still going to die in the Games.

But it least won't be a little one. I nod into the counter.

Take the little blessings where you can grab them and don't let go.

"The boy's called Peeta!" Pette yells to me, then giggles. "We sound like twins, right? Pette, Peeta?"

On the other hand, maybe it's all just shit.


End file.
